


Close Range Surveillance

by Fahye



Series: Legends & Legatees [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pegging, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fahye/pseuds/Fahye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The world's not ending. Any more," came through the wall to Harry's left. </p><p>That was <i>Eggsy'</i>s voice, breathless and a touch smug, and apparently carrying on the other side of the orgasm conversation, which was enough to undo any and all calmness that the blue walls might have managed to achieve for Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Range Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

> This is...pretty indefensible. I can't even say 'I don't know where it came from', because it 98% came from listening to the slashreport podcast about the movie and hearing them talk about poor frustrated DEFINITELY ALIVE Harry being stuck in one of Valentine's Luxury Underground Cells For Oh _Hell_ Naysayers while listening to Eggsy fuck a princess.
> 
> The other 2% arose from the inherent subject-object ambiguity of the statement 'we can do it in the arsehole'. 
> 
> So, you know. Just as long as we all know what we're getting into here.

On at least nine separate occasions, Harry Hart had closed his eyes in the expectation that he would never open them again.

It goes without saying that he'd been wrong every time. He'd always woken tied to a chair or a table or some other tiresome device, either because his captors had wanted information from him or because they'd been unable to resist the theatrical nonsense that Valentine had been deploring right before he'd aimed his gun at Harry's face and--well, you could see why on this occasion of all occasions Harry's primary emotion, on struggling back up into consciousness, was _surprise_.

His head was pounding. He couldn't feel any restraints. The surface beneath his back was soft rather than hard, the temperature neutral, and there was no obvious ambient sound to suggest that he was in a train or an aeroplane, both of which were distinct possibilities based on previous experience.

Harry kept his eyes closed and awaited the usual sort of comment: _we can do this the easy way or the hard way_ was so common as to tickle the yawn reflex at the corner of Harry's jaw, and _you find yourself entirely at my mercy_ had its own square on the version of Megalomaniac Bingo that Harry and the former Lancelot had once spent a vodka-fuelled evening creating on the backs of bar coasters at the Ritz. Once, it had been _I must insist on hearing the name of your tailor_ , which had made Harry cough around the blood in his throat as his adversary paused while shackling Harry's ankles in order to wistfully finger the stitching at the hem of his trouser leg.

Now, an accented female voice, soft and tinny as though through a speaker, purred, "You are right, giving me an orgasm first _is_ what a gentleman would do."

That was, admittedly, a new one.

Curious, Harry allowed one eye and then the other to open. He was in a small room, minimally but nicely furnished, lying on a respectably-sized bed shoved snugly up against one wall. No windows. No visible cameras. One of those viewing panels in the door that shouted 'cell' loudly enough to be heard over both the softness of the bed and the oddly cheerful paint on the walls, which were the kind of cornflower blue generally chosen by someone who'd read a few books on colour psychology and decided that what their guests/clients/inmates/prisoners (delete as appropriate) _really_ needed was to have calmness inflicted upon them via their retinas.

"Galahad here, checking in," Harry murmured, sitting up.

He wasn't expecting a reply; he didn't have his glasses. Nor--according to a quick search--did he have his phone, his belt, his umbrella, his watch or his cufflinks. Valentine and his people had learned from fighting Kingsmen.

"The world's not ending. Any more," came through the wall to Harry's left.

That was _Eggsy's_ voice, breathless and a touch smug, and apparently carrying on the other side of the orgasm conversation, which was enough to undo any and all calmness that the blue walls might have managed to achieve for Harry.

"S'not like we haven't got time. May as well do it right," Eggsy added.

"You could tell me again about how you, how did you say? _Foiled the plot_ ," said the woman. Her voice tugged at Harry's memory, but his head was still aching like the dickens and he couldn't pin it down.

"Yeah," said Eggsy. "Foiled the plot, stabbed the villain an' all."

Harry felt the corners of his mouth tick upwards. He'd never had a moment's doubt that he'd made the right call, that Eggsy had the makings of a proper Kingsman. So the world had been saved after all. Well _done_ that lad.

"Only I'd rather be eating you out than talking it over again, yeah?" Eggsy said, and Harry's proud smile froze on his face.

"Yes I--oh. _Oh_ , yes," and then something low and heartfelt in another language; Harry couldn't parse it, but he would have gone swaggering to Ladbrokes on the odds that it was obscene.

"I might just take me glasses off."

"Oh," the woman said sweetly, "you do not need them, to find your way?"

Despite himself Harry gave a snort of amusement.

"Sweetheart," said Eggsy, with a blend of politeness and fuck-you that Harry was almost _certain_ he'd picked up from Harry himself, "I can find a sodding clit with my eyes closed, if that's your worry."

"I like them," she decided. "Keep them on."

"Roger that," said Eggsy, and for a while there was no more speech at all, just--sounds.

Harry lifted his hands to cover his ears in the names of privacy and Britishness, felt ridiculous, and lowered them again. It wasn't like he'd never heard anyone have sex before. The job was the job.

But he pictured it. He couldn't _help_ but picture it. The woman's arched back and spread legs, Eggsy with one hand flat on her stomach and another teasing at the soft skin of her thigh as he bent his head to lick her open. Eggsy with his lovely eyes shadowed and focused, watching her keenly for each ripple of response and changing his approach accordingly: flexible, determined, creative, a Kingsman to the core. Eggsy wearing--what? His own clothes, a Kingsman suit? Not much of either, given his current activities?

Glasses _on,_ which suggested that someone had bothered to kit him out properly for the mission. Harry had a moment of sympathy for whomever was on the other side of the video feed, though if it was Merlin then the sympathy was _revoked_ because the man was a pervert of the highest order, and--going by Harry's past experience--would probably sit through the whole thing and then make acerbic comments about it later, saving them up for when Eggsy was about to leap from one moving train to another. With a broken collarbone. In the rain.

(That had been an eventful Tuesday. Harry had never sworn so loudly or so lewdly in his life.)

On the other side of the wall, the woman's soft throaty noises went allegro and leapt half an octave, until she was panting her way down from a loud whine.

"Stop," she gasped, "stop, too much now."

"You really," Eggsy said. "Already?" There was a roughness to his voice. His mouth would be slick and puffy, the colour risen in his cheeks, his hair mussed at the sides from the helpless jerking of the woman's thighs as he worked over her clit with his tongue--

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and called himself several stern names.

"I have not had sex in three weeks," the woman said. "Yes. Already."

"I knew you Scandiwegian birds were up for it and all," said Eggsy, "but that's pretty fuckin' impressive."

And _that_ was where Harry had heard the voice before. He blamed his head injury and the frankly bizarre context for not having recognised Princess Tilde sooner.

This further provision of accurate visual detail for the pornography acting itself out a few yards from Harry did nothing whatsoever for his composure.

"I think you should be fucking my arse now," Tilde said.

That did even less.

"Right, fuck, yeah, _yes_ ," said Eggsy, all in a rush. Harry could imagine his wide-eyed look, his pleased grin, that almost sweet expression of pure anticipation that he'd turned on Harry all those months ago in the Kingsman dressing room as the floor began to drop away. "Fuck. D'you have--I mean--yeah, cheers."

Harry used the ensuing silence to get up and try the door of his cell, on the off chance that the locks had been globally released after Valentine's presumptive demise, but it was still firmly closed. Despite the fact that he'd been denuded of standard-issue Kingsman tools, Harry reasoned it would take him under ten minutes to break out of the cell. But every time he tried to focus on the room's contents, his mind continued to flood with images of what was probably happening on the other side of the wall.

Eggsy dribbling lube onto his fingers. Eggsy with one hand splayed on the girl's buttock and the other working her open. Eggsy rolling a condom onto his erect dick, giving himself a couple of casual strokes, drawing one plush lip between his teeth as he did so.

"Most men, they do not take enough time for this," Tilde said. "They think, two seconds, two fingers, ready to go! You have done it before?"

"That'd be telling," Eggsy said. Even the slowest of intelligence agents would be able to pick that as an intriguing non-answer, worthy of further investigation, but Eggsy delivered it in a filthy whisper that was, Harry had to admit, deeply distracting.

Harry sat back down on the bed and pressed his lips together.

Tilde had started up with the symphony again now: happy, giggly noises of appreciation broken up with satisfied hums and low _aah_ s.

God in Heaven, Harry's _kingdom_ for a pair of earplugs. The room was more like a hotel suite than a dungeon, but he doubted that Valentine's hospitality extended to such miscellany. And it wasn't as though he'd been given the opportunity to pack a suitcase. It was like being at school again, abiding by the unspoken code of young men forced to cohabit in the midst of puberty: if you pretended not to notice that the other chap was wanking under the blankets on the other side of the room, he'd extend you the same courtesy.

"Yes," Tilde gasped. "No, move your-- _yes_. Fuck me like that."

 _And did those feet,_ Harry hummed, _in ancient times, walk upon England's mountains green._

But he didn't want to hum too loudly. If he could hear the soft, steady sounds of Eggsy working himself balls-deep into a Swedish princess, then they'd be able to hear Harry if he pushed the noise too much. Harry had no doubt (oh, very well: _little_ doubt, depending on multiple variables up to and including the boy's occasional penchant for sheer bloody-minded _contrariness_ ) that Eggsy would halt proceedings if he knew Harry was nearby. And it'd be a shame to ruin this for him. The post-world-saving shag was a grand Kingsman tradition, even if it was one that Harry himself hadn't partaken of for a long while.

"Fuck," panted Eggsy. "Is this, are you--"

Tilde made a noise that was equal parts approving and impatient, but certainly not identifiable as actual words.

Harry finished up with Jerusalem and moved on to Rule Britannia, and then started in on the collection of silly ditties he'd picked up in his first year rowing for Cambridge. The tunes made him restless with nostalgia, his shoulders aching with memory: the bus from Goldie, weekends at the Ely, chilly mornings in the tank, _stroke, stroke_ \--

Abruptly, Harry realised that he was humming in perfect time with the slap of flesh on flesh coming from the other side of the wall. His breath shrivelled in his throat just in time for him to hear Eggsy groan, long and loud, and then a kind of gentle thud as though Eggsy's knees had given out in the aftermath of orgasm and he'd collapsed half onto the bed and half onto Tilde herself.

"Thank you," said Tilde, presently. "That was nice."

Eggsy laughed. There was a soft, shag-dazed timbre to it that made Harry's whole body ache with something indefinable. He wanted, abruptly and longingly, to see Eggsy's face.

"Any time, luv."

Harry exhaled. Finally. Someone would be along to release the rest of the prisoners soon, no doubt; he and his incipient migraine could just curl up on the bed and try to recapture the _esprit de corpse,_ hah _,_ that had preceded Eggsy's little foray into--

"And now," Tilde said, "would you like to be fucked by me?"

"Fuck _right_ off," said Eggsy, voice gone high, "where did you get a fucking _dildo_? Why did you pack--wait, did Valentine _provide_ \--bloody hell, _what_?"

These all seemed very valid questions to Harry, who was sitting rigidly upright on the side of the bed without even a bloody pair of bloody earplugs to call his own.

"You did not ask why I had the lubricating gel and the condoms," Tilde pointed out.

" _Why_ did you--"

"Always I have a collection of sex toys in my travel bag," Tilde said, with aplomb which an empress might have envied. "I was permitted to bring it with me. When I was abducted. See?"

There was a short pause. Harry stared at the calming cornflower wall and cursed his own imagination.

"Shit," said Eggsy. "You've not been doin' _nothing_ for three weeks, with all that lot."

"Yes? Or no?"

Harry cast his mind back through his life, trying to pinpoint the exact actions that had led to the exquisite agony of divine retribution that was his current state.

"Yeah, go on then," said Eggsy.

Harry Hart had killed a very large number of people, and probably maimed even more. He'd also saved the world a few times. He honestly wasn't sure whether a karmically minded deity would intend this for the same category as being chained to rocks, vultures with a taste for offal, et cetera, or whether he was supposed to be _enjoying_ it.

Harry's classical education failed to throw up any mythological examples of pure, no-strings-attached rewards. That was probably a hint in itself.

"How'd you want to do this?" Eggsy asked.

"However you are comfortable," said Tilde, ever so polite. "Good. You can get this wet for me, I think?"

Harry had bickered his way through a conversation with Merlin, years ago, about the fact that not a single prospect in a single recruitment class ever made it to the end of their training without referring to Merlin as a sadist, often prefixed with a much ruder adjective. Merlin had adjusted his glasses in that satisfied way of his and said, "Look, Galahad, that's how you know they're worth putting through their paces."

"What," Harry had said, "when they start abusing you verbally?"

Merlin had said, "No: when the urge to push them is that strong. When you take a good hard look at them and think, I'd _really_ like to shove that one out of an aeroplane."

At the time Harry had thought that was, frankly, a load of bollocks. (Possibly excepting Insufferable Rupert, who had served as Gawaine for all of eight months before his untimely death in the field, and whom Harry had wanted cordially to shove out of all sorts of moving things.) But then Harry had never managed to put forward a prospect in whom his confidence was more than lukewarm. He'd told himself he just didn't have the luck of the thing.

Until Eggsy Unwin.

Harry understood what Merlin had been saying, now. He'd no sooner set eyes on Eggsy than he'd been seized with the desire to put out his umbrella and trip the boy down the steps, simply for the pleasure of seeing him climb to his feet again. And the urge had never left, was the damn thing. He still wanted to trap Eggsy in a corner to watch him lift his chin, bare his teeth, and fight his way out. It was all violence and all nonsense and Harry had never been more certain of anything in his life.

At that moment a choking sound came from the other side of the cell wall, followed by a loud sucked-in breath and a few coughs. Harry's mind leapt sideways into something like: yes, I could see how someone--not _me,_ you understand, but _someone_ \--might in a different context have the equally strong urge to shove something between Eggsy's lips, watch his eyes widen, and see how deeply he can take it.

"You did not answer my question," Tilde said. "Of how you are so good at the preparation."

"I know," Eggsy said, or tried to. He coughed again, like someone stretching a cramp from a muscle. "I know."

The part of Harry's brain that had been superbly trained in observation and pattern recognition pointed out: if Merlin's a pervert for being on the other side of the video feed, what does that make you?

 _Oh the grand old duke of York_ , he tried, in the key of desperation, _he had ten thousand men_ , except no: Harry didn't need to be thinking more about men being _had_ in any way, shape or form, thank you. Besides, his throat had become very dry. He gave up on the humming and ran his hands up and down his thighs, soothing his palms on the fabric, restless.

"Higher," Tilde commanded. "Yes. Good. You have experience with girls? Boys?"

"A _genn'lman_ ," Eggsy slurred, accent veering wildly downhill, "don't kiss and tell, yeah? _Fuck_. That's well brilliant, that is. Another, come on, give it to me."

How many fingers was that? A woman's slender fingers, he'd take them easily, take them _beautifully_ , like he'd taken everything else that Harry and the Kingsman selection process had thrown at him. As a canvas for change, Eggsy was perfection; as a sexual object, he'd be _art_. Shining with sweat, a rosy flush on all that golden skin, crying out to be touched and treasured and marked.

"What? Are you embarrassed?" said Tilde. "There is no need. We are not going to see each other again. I am very glad you saved the world, and this is a lot of fun. But when we are finished, I am going back to Sweden."

"S'not that," Eggsy said. "It's just that, _uhh_ , I've been trained not to give away personal information, innit? _Oh._ Fuck fuck. Fffuuuck."

Harry was suffused with a warm surge of affection for the boy, as he had been when watching Eggsy yelling defiance in the face of imminent death by British Rail, wrists straining against the rope, brilliant and bright-eyed with stubbornness and fear.

Princess Tilde giggled. "Very admirable," she said--advanced vocabulary there--sounding the word out, delicate as a sugar biscuit on her tongue. "I'm sure they would be proud of you, your masters."

Harry waited for Eggsy to snap in protest of the word _masters_ , but there was nothing but a wetly snatched-back breath, followed by a low groan.

"Good," Tilde said. "Oh, you are _very_ good. I shall give you more?"

"Just wait f'r a minute," Eggsy said hoarsely. "Christ, that's a lot. Fuck."

"I will wait," said Tilde. Harry imagined her, perhaps with the straps of a harness pinking up her pale skin, looking down with unruffled poise to where Eggsy was stretched tight around the very tip of the dildo. Politely, with the air of someone used to making small talk in awkward situations, she went on, "You have a beautiful arse."

 _Doesn't he just_ , murmured the part of Harry that he'd been trying his hardest to silence with _Britannia rules the waves_.

Eggsy made a noise that was probably a laugh. "Yeah, cheers," he said. "Yours was lovely too."

As a fresh young Kingsman, on a mission somewhere in France--Toulouse, or was it Nice?--Harry had once spent three hours crammed inside an airing cupboard, a thin wicker door the only barrier between himself and the black market barons upon whom he was eavesdropping. It had been a small and brutal masterclass in surveillance. The primary lesson, of course, being absolute, agonising stillness. Keeping quiet despite the cramps abseiling down his spine and legs. After the first hour he'd discovered how to detach his senses from his body and pour all of his awareness into what he was hearing, memorising names and details, imprinting the voices in his memory so that he would know them again in an instant.

Without entirely meaning too, Harry found himself in that near-hypnotic state of concentration. Where before he'd been trying to block out the sounds from the adjacent cell, his hearing was now attuned so closely that he could hear _more_. He could hear every wet, fleshy sound, every roughly drawn breath, and the gentle pulsing squeak that signalled someone being pounded into an expensive mattress.

"Would they be proud of the way you take cock, these masters of yours? If they could see you like this, arse up for me, so greedy."

That was it. The picture seared itself across Harry's brain like the afterimage of an arms warehouse going up in flames against a Russian midnight, and he couldn't pretend any longer that the warm feeling currently wreaking merry havoc with his blood and his pulse was as innocent as affection, or even pride.

" _Fuck,"_ Eggsy said, in an entirely new tone.

Harry glared down at his own erection where it was straining against the snug wool of his trousers. Utterly ruining the line, of course.

"You won't be getting any encouragement from this quarter," he told it, in the sternest and most silent whisper he could manage.

"Yeah," Eggsy panted, "you can--I can--oh, fuckin' _hell_ , that's it, right there."

There was a sudden faint thump which Harry could almost feel in his gut, it was so close. Tilde's bed, striking the wall. Eggsy swore, too faint for Harry to make out anything but fricatives. The bed thumped against the wall again.

Harry clenched both of his hands around his own bedsheets as though they were a window ledge, a dangling rope, the only thing between himself and a long plunge downwards. Then he chided himself for lack of control and slowly released them. One unruly anatomical region at a time was enough.

"You are so sensitive," admired Tilde. "Becoming stiff again, so soon. Maybe you are younger than I thought."

 _Arse up,_ she'd said. Harry remembered Tilde as a tall girl; she'd have enough leverage, on her knees. One hand leaving a starburst of bruises where her nails dug into the skin over Eggsy's hip, and the other reaching teasingly around, brushing over his half-erect and too-sensitive cock with gentle fingers.

"Or is it that you are thinking of someone else doing this? Some English girl back home?" A pause, as though she was gauging Eggsy's response. Eggsy gave a muffled whine that sounded more like complaint than anything else. "Or, no, someone with a _real_ cock, to push into you while you put your hand in your mouth like that."

Decades' worth of breeding and experience stopped the instinctive, animalistic noise from escaping Harry's throat. Which meant that the choked gasp filling his ears must have come from Eggsy. Harry pictured Eggsy's cock, gorgeous and red and almost totally hard again now, jerking in embarrassment and sheer need against Tilde's palm.

"Mmff _God_ , oh fuck, fuck, come _on_."

"So it is a man, then." Tilde sounded pleased. And not puffed at all; the part of Harry still searching guiltily for distraction seemed to remember a briefing paper about the princess, which mentioned the fact that she'd narrowly missed out on representing her country in Olympic cross-country skiing. "Are you going to tell me who? Do I have to torture it out of you, English spy? I can be persuasive."

"Don't matter," Eggsy said, rough. "Not here, is he?"

"Come on, spy boy," Tilde said, with a pouting edge to her voice. "Play the game for me. We are having fun, no?"

"Fuck, shit," Eggsy panted, and then came more words that were suddenly muffled, like he'd turned his head into the pillow, or like his hand was--what had Tilde said?--back in his mouth. Like he was biting at it, or just needed something there to suck, to get messy with his tongue while his arse was stretched and filled.

At this point Harry found the words _fuck it_ in his head, precise and cool as ice dropped into good gin.

 _Fuck it._ He'd closed his eyes; he'd thought he was going to die. A Kingsman had saved the world. And although the newspaper headlines probably weren't going to be as mundane as Harry would like--there was the church full of slaughtered rednecks, for a start, let alone anything else that might have happened while he was unconscious--if Harry's fate was to sit here in an inferno of lust at the sound of his gorgeous young protégé being thoroughly rogered, he was going to commit to doing the thing properly.

Harry slid two fingers into the knot of his tie and loosened it, easing the silk apart with gentle scissoring motions.

"You--why'd you slow down?" Eggsy gasped.

Once he'd removed his tie, Harry let his suit jacket slide from his shoulders and laid it down to one side. He began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, which were hanging loose where the cufflinks had been removed. One fold, two, three; careful. Keeping the folds neat.

"You must breathe," Tilde said, not unkindly. "You are working hard. All your muscles, here."

Where was she touching? Beside the ridge of Eggsy's spine? The strong breadth of his shoulders, or the line of his flank, taut like a tripwire? His thighs, perhaps, trembling with effort to hold him in place?

Harry closed his eyes as he began to unbutton his fly. He could pluck the smallest part from a disassembled gun, or slide a poison pill into a drink without rippling its surface; his fingers were the faintest whisper of friction against the aching line of his cock. Even so, the tiny nudge of a fingernail was enough to send sensation spiralling out into his lower stomach. All the muscles there clenched down.

"Fuck, alrigh', _please_."

For the first time Harry entertained the notion that this was some kind of fantasy constructed by the sparks of his dying brain, his very own near death experience, featuring voyeuristic smut in place of a peaceful garden and white light. Because, hell, why not admit it: there _was_ a part of Harry Hart that had no sooner set eyes on Eggsy Unwin than it had wanted not only to trip him down the steps, but also to tie the boy to things--to railway tracks, to desks, to cheap radiators and expensive beds--and make him _beg_ ; wanted to ruin him utterly, wanted to install him between Harry's sheets and never let him leave.

Harry was a spy, for goodness' sake. He'd always found gardens deathly boring anyway.

"No, no," said Tilde, lazy with accustomed authority, "take your hand from your cock."

Harry tugged a fold of sheet across his lap. He hadn't bothered to pull his trousers very far down his legs, and there was no point staining them if he could avoid it. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where he'd been leaking, pressed against the fabric.

"Hands near your head," said Tilde. "You are good at this, too. At doing what you are told."

"Well that's-- _unh_ \--a new one," said Eggsy, laughing a bit.

"Is that who you are thinking about?" said Tilde suddenly. "The person who gives you orders?"

"He's not--he's not here to give me orders. Not any more." And then, a surprising return of fire, with just enough sly surrender to prove that Eggsy had probably had his own _fuck it_ moment and decided that he didn't want the game to end yet: "Helped train me, though. Picked me for it an' all."

Harry felt like a car windscreen in the moment after the bullet hit, seen in slow-motion: the impossible ripple of tension across glass, buckling and then exploding in a shower of shards. His cock jerked hard, and then jerked again as he eased the elastic waistband of his pants over it, leaving it exposed to the air and desperate for touch. He could feel his breath coming unevenly. He was light-headed and vicious with desire, shivering within his skin.

"Ohh," Tilde sighed, like someone solving a riddle. "I understand. For me it was my English tutor, when I was a girl."

"Yeah?" Eggsy said, his tone full of genuine interest at this personal disclosure, like a shark sensing blood. Eggsy must have felt the incongruity of this shift into spy autopilot as quickly as Harry did, because he started laughing almost immediately, uneven with the force of what could only be Tilde's thrusts.

The most Kingsman part of Harry shrugged and filed the English tutor thing away in case it was ever useful in the future; you never could tell, with royals. It certainly explained why her vocabulary extended to words like _lubricating gel._

"You want him to fuck you, you want that he teaches you to do it _right_ , do it the way he _wants_ it--"

 _"Jesus_ ," Eggsy said, and the first syllable was stuffed full of vowel sounds that had been put through a wringer and three Shoreditch pubs and then possibly a hedge, but it was still somehow the most arousing thing Harry had ever heard.

And suddenly this wasn't embarrassing or amusing or just an incredible piece of voyeurism, because Harry wanted to force the lock and march into the next cell and tell this gratifyingly creative specimen of Scandinavian royalty thank you very much, he'd take it from here, and have a firm hand at the back of Eggsy's neck before the boy could straighten up. He'd keep Eggsy pressed down in the bed and slide right in where the sex toy had fucked him open, made him ready. And Eggsy would say something rude with that clever, sweet, filthy little mouth of his, and tell Harry to _move_ , and Harry would lean down and bite at his ear and say: _Now, now. Ask nicely._

Harry felt himself make a sound like a growl, was utterly unable to judge how loud the damn thing had been, and finally grabbed hold of his cock. He felt like both a teenager and an old man: he was so hard, he was so _close_ , he felt like his body was trying to shake apart at the level of his bones.

Eggsy wailed, "Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_ ," and then cried out, sudden and pure and sharp, as though he'd felt his second orgasm as the slicing kiss of a whip across his skin.

Harry collapsed back onto the bed, wrecked, hips shoving selfishly up and up again into the merciless grip of his hand. He wanted to know the face that went with that sound, he could _imagine_ it, something between pain and defiance and bliss, Eggsy biting down on Harry's thumb and Eggsy clenching around him, hot, reckless, sublime--

He spilled onto his fingers and the folded sheet, teeth bared, snarling silently, feeling wave-struck and shocked even though there was no reason to be shocked. As sometimes happened with orgasms, his brain got stuck babbling, time stretching around his awareness of the words-- _do it the way he wants it, do it the way he wants it, you want that he teaches you--_ until it was over and Harry was back in his body, his ribcage a satiated ache, his tongue running over his dry lips again and again.

Harry stared at the blue ceiling and let his brain grab at thoughts that weren't calm at all.

There was going to be. Well. A conversation. Probably several conversations.

He didn't have a bloody clue how it was going to start, though. _So, Eggsy, tell me how long you've been wanting my cock inside you. So, Eggsy, I've got some orders you might be interested in following_. A gentle aftershock ran through his groin. _So, Eggsy, how do you feel about coming home with me and letting me fuck you until you forget every syllable of your name, until you make that whip-sound for me, until there's no part of your skin that I haven't put my mouth to?_

Then-- _bang_ \--something thumped hard on the door of the cell. Harry's cell? Or Tilde's? He couldn't tell. His headache, which had momentarily ceded the floor to the more urgent demands of his libido, waved like an eager student to catch his attention again.

Very slowly, Harry wiped his hand on the sheet.

There was another series of thumps, followed by a voice that even post-concussion and post-wank Harry had no difficulty in identifying as the new Lancelot.

"Come on, Eggsy. I'm sure we're all very impressed. But might I remind you that I shot a _satellite_ and then got stranded in a _field_ , Merlin had time to come and get me, and we worked out how to release all the cell doors, and apparently you're _still_ here getting your bloody end in?"

The doors.

Well, it's not like he'd have _heard_ them click, was it?

Harry sat up. He wiped his hand once more, gingerly used a clean sheet corner to give his cock a wipe as well, and tucked himself away.

His headache was dancing with the sound of his racing pulse, but he was used to working under worse conditions. He stood, fastened his trousers, and donned the calm expression that was even more vital to his sense of self than the curve of his umbrella handle under his palm, or the fall of his cuffs against his wrists.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. In that moment, it felt like the bravest thing he'd ever done.

He cleared his throat.

"Ah, Lancelot," he said. "Merlin. Would someone care to bring me up to speed?"

"What-- _Galahad_!" burst out of Lancelot, and a shocked growl of " _Wanker_ ," from Merlin, and--deeper and heavier than both of these combined--there was a silence from the door of the adjacent cell, the deafening and electric silence of particles brushing against one another in the boiling mouths of dark clouds.

Harry put his hands in his pockets, smiled, and turned his face into the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> further nonsense at [fahye.tumblr.com](http://fahye.tumblr.com)


End file.
